I
spent my present dwelling on the past, and spent my past dwelling on
my future. I never understood time. No clock in my house reads the
same time. Some clocks have four hands, some have none. Some have
fourteen numbers, some have two, some have one. Indeed my favorite
clock has one word, and one hand. "Now," it reads. And the best
part is that the hand has never pointed to it. They have chased each
other around as long as I've owned that clock. It sits above my
desk, peering over the mountain of scrapped words on paper.

I
had another clock of the same sort, but it makes me sad to look or
think about it. I like watching the hands of clocks move, but this
one doesn't. Just as the other clock, this says, "Now" as
well, except the hand has never moved from it. I threw the clock out
of the window earlier today and heard it shatter. It made me laugh.
I laugh at all the wrong times.

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